Thinking Outside The Box
by The Original Geek
Summary: Tony is hurt and heartsick after the events of Boxed In. Will helping someone even worse off than him help ease the pain? First in the "A Beautiful Friendship" series.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Yup, it's another "Boxed In" tag/continuation. I don't know why, but the whole Tony/Tobias (ToTo?) friendship thing just sort of wormed its way into my mind for some reason, and this first chapter almost wrote itself. I've always felt that Tobias likes – or would like to like – Tony more than he lets on, and this is my take on why he won't open himself up to that and what would happen if he did. Spoilers for: 3x12 Boxed In

Legal Stuff: I don't own anything except for the jazz club that is the main setting for this chapter. Ellington's is all mine – it's the sort of place I'd love to find for myself, but haven't been able to yet.

* * *

Tony's arm hurt and his head hurt, but most of all his heart hurt. He sat and listened as the others talked about the meal they'd had at Ziva's the night before and the wonderful evening they'd had, and his heart cracked a little bit more with each passing moment. _Chin up, DiNozzo_, he thought, fixing the mask he always wore back in place. "Sounds like it was a lot fun, Boss," he said, gathering his stuff up and offering what he hoped was a nonchalant grin. "Ziva, sorry, thanks for the offer of the drive and dinner, but I actually have plans tonight. I'm gonna grab a cab to the restaurant – I don't think Candi would be too pleased if I showed up there with another woman." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her, and was rewarded with a sniff and a look he was very familiar with – the one that told him exactly what Ziva thought of him at that moment.

He saw Gibbs' eyes narrow as he stared at his senior field agent, and Tony stared back, still grinning. He hoped that he could pass muster, that Gibbs couldn't see his true feelings – the hurt and rejection he'd tamped down. It must have worked, he thought, for after a moment Gibbs just nodded and said "Have a good weekend, DiNozzo, and rest that arm. See you Monday."

Once in the cab Tony sighed softly. He didn't really want to go home right away, his "date with Candi" being something he'd made up on the spot to get away. He gave the cab driver the address of a jazz club a few blocks away from the National Mall, far enough from NCIS that he wasn't likely to run into anyone he knew – which was one of the reasons he liked the place. The bartender, a dark-haired man who looked slightly older than Tony, smiled as he walked in a grabbed a seat.

"Hey, Tony, long time no see. You in a beer or wine mood tonight?" he asked.

Tony thought for a moment before replying. "You still have any of the 2001 Pio Cesare Barolo, Sam?" he asked, naming a very expensive Italian red wine. This was another reason he liked Ellington's – they had one of the largest and most eclectic wine lists in Washington, and that was saying a lot.

"Not by the glass, I don't – not even for you." Sam looked hard at Tony, noting the sling on his arm and the sadness in his eyes. "I assume, given the condition of that wing of yours, that you're not driving, so do you want the full bottle? If not, I've got a nice Chianti by the glass…"

"Only if I can get a piece of liver and some fava beans with it," Tony interrupted, smiling. He was already feeling less heart-heavy than when he'd walked in. "I don't think I'm up to a full bottle tonight, Sam. Any other suggestions?"

Sam smiled – he had purposely mentioned the Chianti expecting the movie reference, and he was pleased to see that it had had the desired effect on Tony's mood. "How about a glass of the Castelluccio Sangiovese, then? And, of course, a plate of Ellington's Fettucini Carbonara, since I suspect you haven't eaten yet?"

Tony nodded appreciatively. "Sounds good, Sam." It took very little time for his food to come from the kitchen, and as Tony savoured the pasta and wine and listened to the jazz trio on stage he felt the stress of the day slipping away.

"You wanna talk about it, Tony?" Sam asked quietly during a lull in the music, after refilling Tony's glass.

Tony hesitated. He'd talked to Sam before after rough days at work, the old cliché about bartenders being good listeners holding true in the other man's case, and the easygoing bartender usually had a perspective on things that Tony sometimes lacked. "It's been a pisser of a day, Sam," he started, taking another sip of his wine. "First I get locked in this storage container with Ziva…"

"Ziva's the Israeli Mossad chick, right? And how the heck did you get yourself locked in?" Sam asked.

"Can't tell you that – classified. Needless to say it was a bit more exciting than just sitting around the office talking about dinner parties, which is probably a good thing." Tony's voice was bitter as he spoke the last sentence, a fact that Sam picked up on as he raised an eyebrow quizzically. Tony sighed and continued, modulating his voice back to a softer tone. "So we finally get out after hours in there and, once I get my arm patched up, end up back at the office 'cause Gibbs has to have the reports written right away. I mean, I'm a pretty terrible typist at the best of times, but one-handed? Anyway, I finally get that done and Ziva starts going on again about this dinner party she had, which apparently I wasn't invited to. And then, to top it all off, I find out…"

At that moment one of the waitresses came storming over to the bar. "Sorry to interrupt you guys," she said, flashing an apologetic smile at Tony, "but I need your help, Sam. That FBI guy's insisting on another drink, and he won't take no for an answer. I know you've already got his keys, but any more and I'm afraid he's going to pass out over there."

"Well, at least he's a quiet drunk, not an angry one," Sam muttered. He clapped a hand on Tony's good shoulder as he came out from behind the bar and headed past him. "Hang on a mo, okay? I just have to get this guy poured into a cab and then I want to hear the rest."

"Let me give you a hand, Sam." Tony fell in beside Sam. As the bartender stared pointedly at Tony's arm, the NCIS agent laughed. "Hey, if this guy's as drunk as he sounds, even I should be able to handle him tonight. 'Sides, the FBI never was a match for NCIS."

Sam just shrugged and headed towards the table, Tony right behind him. As they got near, the occupant looked up. He was shielded from Tony's view by Sam's tall form. "Hey, there's the innkeep!" he called, raising his glass in a mock toast. His words were slurred from the alcohol had he consumed, but he was trying to speak distinctly, his efforts almost comical. "Innkeep, 'nother one, if you please. I wanna 'nother toast to my boys," he said, waving a photograph he had clutched in none-too-steady hands.

Tony frowned, as he tried to place the familiar-sounding voice. Coming up beside Sam, his eyes widened in surprise.

"Fornell?"

* * *

A/N: The 2001 Pio Cesare Barolo wine is a real wine that costs about $70 US/bottle – Pio Cesare being the vineyard and Barolo being the grape variety. Chianti and Sangiovese are (usually) less-expensive grape varieties primarily from Italy, although Sangiovese is also grown in California. The 2006 Castelluccio Sangiovese Le More costs about $15 US/bottle. The "movie reference" that Sam recognises is, of course, a reference to Hannibal Lecter's signature line from "Silence of the Lambs".


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all who reviewed the previous chapter and/or put this on their Story Alert/Favourite lists. I'm overwhelmed at the response.

Legal Stuff: I own nothing connected with NCIS, more's the pity.

* * *

"Fornell?"

Tobias Fornell gazed blearily at Tony. "Di… Di… It's DiNutso!" he crowed happily. "No, not DiNutso – DiNotzo. Gotta be nice to you for once. Not nice to you, am I, DiNotzo? Remind me too much of my lost boys – s'why I'm so mean to you. Don't want to like you, 'case... well, just in case. You're a good kid, though. Told Jethro that once." Fornell rose unsteadily as he was speaking and threw an arm around Tony's shoulders, leaning heavily on his damaged arm. Tony bit back a gasp of pain, and shifted Fornell to his other side – not an easy task, given how drunk the man was. "Lost boys, eh, Fornell? Why do I get the feeling we're not talking Corey Haim and Corey Feldman here?"

"You know this mook, Tony?" Sam asked, helping to support Fornell's weight as he started to slide towards the floor, not quite passed out but well on his way.

"Yeah, I know him, Sam," Tony sighed. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns…" he muttered, tightening his hold on Fornell. As much as he'd like to just help Sam get the FBI agent into a cab and send him on his way, Fornell was much too drunk for him to feel comfortable doing that. And there was something about his mood, something in his voice when he said "my lost boys" that touched something inside of Tony. Fornell was hurting, and Tony couldn't just abandon him – he knew a thing or two about hurting himself. Coming to a quick decision, Tony hoisted the FBI agent up. "Sam, can you help me get him into a cab? I'll make sure he gets home okay." Sam looked at him doubtfully, but helped him haul Fornell to the front door and get him into a cab.

"Hey," Sam said, just before he closed the cab door, "don't forget, you still owe me the rest of today's story."

Tony smiled. "You got it, Sam. Maybe tomorrow when I bring him back for his car keys we can break open that Barolo." Mercifully Fornell was relatively quiet during the twenty-minute ride back to Tony's apartment, falling asleep part way there with his head lolling against the window. The photo he had been clutching in almost a death grip fluttered gently to the floor of the cab, and Tony leaned over and picked it up. He stared at the inscription on the back for a moment – "Nicky's first big bust! Nick, Toby, Paul, May 15, 1993" – before turning the photo over to look at it. It had obviously been taken at a bar or restaurant, as the three men in the picture were toasting the camera with drinks. Tony thought Fornell looked a lot younger in the photo than now, and a lot happier. He sighed and put the put the picture in his suit pocket where it would be safe.

The cab pulled up in front of Tony's apartment and the driver turned back to face Tony. "Do you need some help getting him upstairs, sir?"

Looking at the now semi-conscious Fornell, Tony nodded. "Yeah, if you wouldn't mind." Once they'd gotten Fornell into Tony's apartment and dumped him in the guest bedroom Tony paid the driver, including a hefty tip. After the cabbie left, Tony went back into the guest room. Fornell was splayed out on his back, snoring lightly.

"What am I going to do with you, Toby?" Tony asked quietly. With a sudden flash of insight he realised why Fornell disliked him using that name so much. Obviously Fornell's "lost boys" had called him that and, given Fornell's drunken confession at Ellington's, Tony's use of it brought back memories Fornell would just as soon forget. Making his way over to the bed, Tony removed the FBI agent's clothes – the jacket and shirt giving him quite a challenge with his injured arm – leaving him in pants, undershirt and socks. Once he was done Fornell curled up on his side, hugging one of the pillows and murmuring something Tony couldn't make out. "Sleep well, Tobias," he murmured, taking a quilt from the end of the bed and spreading it over the sleeping FBI agent. Tony was exhausted from the day, but before heading off to his own room he made sure that the garbage can was beside the bed and he placed a couple of bottles of water and a bottle of Aspirin on the bedside table. The last thing he did before going to bed himself was to place Fornell's picture against the lamp on the table. "Watch over him, boys," he said softly, turning the light out and closing the guest room door behind him.

When Fornell awoke the next morning he was totally disoriented - the last thing he remembered was drinking at some bar he'd found near the National Mall. The clock on the bedside table told him it was after 10 a.m. Groaning as the pain in his head made itself known, he grabbed the one of the bottles of water and the Aspirin and swallowed three pills in rapid succession, draining the entire bottle of water in almost one go. Once his thirst was slaked, he looked around the room, trying to figure out where he was. All that told him was that he probably wasn't in a hotel – not many hotel rooms boasted handmade quilts on beds with mahogany headboards, at least not many he could afford to stay in. The room he was in was small but tastefully decorated in shades of green and blue. A matching mahogany bookcase and dresser completed the furniture in the room, and the walls had a couple of framed black and white photographs on them. Fornell examined the signature on one of them and was surprised to find it was an Ansel Adams. He didn't know much about photography, or art for that matter, but he did know that Ansel Adams-signed original prints did not come cheap.

He realised he was stalling, nervous about leaving the room and finding out where he was – and who he had gone home with – and quickly dressed, choosing to stuff the tie in his pocket instead of putting it on. Seeing the picture of Nick and Paul on the night table, he gently placed it in his inside coat suit pocket. It appeared to him that whomever had brought him home had placed the picture so he would see it when he woke up, almost as if it was watching over him. That thought made him a bit more confident about facing whatever lay ahead.

Tentatively he opened the bedroom door and looked out into the room beyond, which was obviously a living room. A high-def TV set sat against one wall in an entertainment unit overflowing with DVDs. A comfortable-looking couch and matching recliner were positioned in front of it. The rest of the room was decorated in creams and browns with furniture that complemented the room perfectly and spoke of good taste and not a little bit of money. Unfortunately it still gave Fornell no clue as to whose home he was in.

The sounds of soft jazz came from another room and Fornell headed towards it, anxious to find out who his mysterious benefactor was. Stepping into the kitchen, his jaw dropped as he saw Tony sitting at the kitchen table reading a paper and drinking coffee. The younger man got up as he came in and smiled slightly, going to the refrigerator and taking out a pitcher filled with a vile-looking green substance. "Here," he said quietly, pouring Fornell a glass, "drink this. It'll help your head and your stomach."

Fornell stared at the glass in Tony's outstretched hand suspiciously. "What is it?" he asked.

Tony grinned. "The DiNozzo Defibrillator. Been in the family for six generations. Drink it, Fornell. Trust me, you'll feel a lot better afterwards."

Fornell glared at Tony before taking the glass and draining it, grimacing at the taste. He was surprised to find that he did, indeed, feel a bit better. "Tastes like crap, DiNotzo. What's in it?"

Tony's smile got even wider. "It's a family secret, Tobias. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." His smile faded slightly as he changed the subject. "I know your stomach's probably still not up to food, but d'you want some coffee?"

Fornell frowned, not used to a solicitous Tony DiNozzo. Tony saw this and his smile disappeared completely as he sighed. "Look, Fornell, I know we're not friends – hell, most of the time we're barely even civil to each other. That said, I respect you a lot, although if you ever repeat that I'll deny it completely. I've been where you are," he said, thinking of Kate and how he had dealt with her death, "so I couldn't, in good conscience, leave you there. 'Sides, despite all his bluster to the contrary, Gibbs likes you," he continued, trying to lighten the mood. "If I hadn't helped you he probably would have headslapped me into next week."

Fornell snorted at that. "Cup of coffee sounds good, DiNotzo," he said, accepting the olive branch. Somehow he wasn't surprised that Tony knew how he took his coffee, he thought, as he watched Tony add just the right amount of cream and sugar. Fornell knew that, despite his frat-boy antics, the NCIS agent was incredibly observant and had a good memory. During one the first cases he and Jethro had worked together after Tony had joined NCIS Fornell had taken great delight in making Tony fetch endless amounts coffee for the two of them. Smiling at the memory Fornell took a cautious sip from the cup Tony handed him, his face breaking into a smile at the full, rich taste of the coffee. "Glad to see you don't share your boss' taste in what he calls coffee. This is good stuff."

"It's a Costa Rican blend I really like. There's this little coffee place just off the National Mall that carries it. Actually," Tony said, figuring it was a good way of segueing into the night before, "it's only a couple of blocks from Ellington's. I could show you where when I take you back to pick up your car."

"Is that where I was last night? I can call a cab. I don't want to put you out any more than I already have," Fornell said, glancing away. He still had no real memories of what had happened last night, but he knew it probably wasn't good.

"We'll be taking a cab anyway, unless you want to grab the Metro," Tony said wryly. "My car's still at the Navy Yard. And you're not putting me out, Fornell. Was planning on heading back there for lunch anyway and hitting the Museum of American History afterwards." Tony grinned at Fornell's incredulous expression. "Hey, they've got a new exhibit of classic movie memorabilia I've been dying to see. Y'know, the snow globe from Citizen Kane, Sam's piano from Casablanca, that sort of thing. Anyway, I'm going to grab a quick run before we go. I've got spare kit if you want to work off some of that alcohol, or if you want a shower or something that's fine, too."

"A run sounds good. It'll clear my head, should settle my stomach too."

Tony nodded and gestured for Fornell to follow him to his bedroom. As Tony pulled together running kit for him, Fornell looked around the room, not bothering to hide his curiosity. Tony's bedroom was decorated in soft shades of green, reminding Fornell of a forest in the mist. The furniture was made of oak – at least Fornell thought it was oak – with intricately carved pictures and scenes on them. On one wall were several pictures of movie and television stars, each one autographed personally to Tony.

"If you've finished scoping out the place, give these a try for size," Tony said dryly, handing Fornell a stack of clothes and a pair of running shoes. Fornell took one look at the sweatshirt on the top of the pile and baulked.

"Not just no, DiNotzo, but hell no," he said, tossing the NCIS sweatshirt back at him.

Tony laughed. "Well, it's either an NCIS one or one of my old OSU ones, and they're pretty tattered," he said, smiling. "Your choice."

Fornell snorted. "Some choice. I guess the OSU sweatshirt is the lesser of two evils – I'll wear one of those," he said, a trace of a smile in his voice. He knew how proud Tony was of his alma mater, and the younger man didn't disappoint him as he leapt to his school's defense.

"Hey, you should be proud to sport an Ohio State shirt. They're one of the top athletic schools in the nation," Tony said indignantly, going over to the dresser and pulling out an OSU sweatshirt.

"Pretty good theatre program too, eh DiNotzo?" Fornell said, all traces of humour gone from his voice. Tony spun around, his jaw dropping as he stared at the FBI agent.

"How the hell…?"


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the final chapter guys! Thanks again to all who have reviewed, faved or alerted this so far – hope you like the finale. Spoilers for: 2x22 SWAK, 2x23 Twilight, 3x09 Frame Up, 3x12 Boxed In

* * *

"How the hell…?" Tony said, looking at Fornell in confusion. His expression changed to anger as he suddenly realised how Fornell knew that he'd minored in theatre at Ohio State. "The FBI did a background check when I was framed by Chip, didn't they? "

"Had to, DiNotzo, it's part of the job. You know that," Fornell said calmly, entirely unrepentant. "You telling me NCIS wouldn't have done exactly the same thing if our positions had been reversed?"

Tony was not appeased. "Well, forgive me if I'm a bit pissed that the FBI knows everything about my personal life," he said angrily, starting to pace. "Hell, I bet Slacks had a great time digging through my past…"

"Hey!" Fornell interrupted, cutting Tony off in mid-rant. "I was the one who did the background check, and I made sure that everything was destroyed once you were cleared. Anything I may or may not have seen is no one else's business. Unless, of course, you manage to get yourself accused of murder again."

Tony snorted inelegantly, his temper rapidly cooling. "Yeah, like that's going to happen." He glanced away from Fornell, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish. "Thanks, Fornell," he said softly. "There's a lot of stuff in my file I'd really rather people didn't know about. I appreciate your discretion."

"I told Gibbs I'd look after you," Fornell said gruffly, dismissing Tony's thanks. A fleeting thought crossed his mind; he was glad that he'd done the background check otherwise he would have wondered how someone on a fed's salary could afford Tony's apartment and its contents. Thanks to the check he knew that the younger man had inherited enough money from his mother's side of the family that he could afford to indulge most of his somewhat-expensive tastes, but not enough that he didn't have to work for a living. "Besides, now I understand why you're so good at undercover work," he said. "Although if you ever tell anyone I said that I'll deny it completely," he continued, echoing Tony's earlier words while pointing his finger at the other man.

Tony grinned and held out the OSU sweatshirt. "So, you changed your mind about the run?"

Fornell just glared at him as he grabbed the sweatshirt and stalked off to the guest room to change.

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As he didn't know what Fornell's ability was, Tony started their run at a slow jog. He could feel Fornell's gaze upon him, and smiled as the other man sped up, pushing the pace to something much closer to what Tony usually ran at. Tony let Fornell continue to set the pace, and was pleasantly surprised when he didn't slow down until they'd run almost five miles. They slowed to a walk, allowing them to cool down from the run. "Have to say, Tobias, I'm surprised," Tony said, grinning at the other man. "Who knew you had the heart of a runner underneath those godawful polyester suits!"

Fornell snorted. "I could say the same about you and those fancy Armani suits you wear, DiNotzo" he shot back.

"Can I ask you something?" Tony said as they headed back towards his apartment. At Fornell's quizzical look he continued. "Why do you always pronounce my last name like that? Well, when you're not calling me 'DiNutso'."

"It's the proper Italian pronunciation, isn't it?" Fornell answered. "My question is why don't you pronounce it like that?"

Tony laughed. "That's easy. Dad always pronounced it the way I do, so I guess I picked it up from him. He was never big on the whole Italian heritage thing," he finished, a bleak expression flitting briefly across his face.

Fornell had a feeling that there was more to the story than that, but he was willing to let it drop, as he was enjoying the easy rapport that was developing between him and Tony. "You ever run any of the marathons here in DC?" he asked curiously.

"Naw, seven or eight miles at a time is about my limit. Been thinking about trying a half-marathon, though, just to see if I could do it. You?"

By this time they'd reached Tony's apartment building and headed back upstairs. Fornell waited until Tony had opened the door and they'd entered the apartment before answering, his voice soft. "Last one I ran was with Nicky and Paul," he said quietly. He saw Tony's hastily-covered up wince and sighed inwardly. He hadn't talked about his teammates in years, but something about his newfound ease with Tony made him continue. Or maybe he just felt guilty about Tony knowing about the background check. "Nicola Giordano," he said, pronouncing the name Italian-style, "was very proud of his Italian heritage. I used to call him Nicky because it drove him crazy – it always pissed him off when people didn't pronounce his name right. Paul Jones' family had been in America since before the War of Independence. He used to brag that he was named after John Paul Jones, claimed he was an ancestor."

"Tobias," Tony said softly, "you don't have to..."

`Yeah, Tony, I do," Fornell said, cutting the other man off. "In 1992 I was a newly-minted team leader, and Nicky and Paul were my first team, the two of them fresh out of the Academy. God, they were so idealistic," he said, his voice raw. "Anyway, the three of us really hit it off, really came together as a team and as friends. Made some good busts and I guess we started getting cocky. We were working this gunrunning case with a couple of other teams and somehow it ended up with a shootout at this warehouse down by the docks. Nicky and Paul were both killed, three other agents were wounded." He had been one of the wounded, but wasn't about to share that with DiNozzo. "Logically I know that there was nothing I could do, that it wasn't my fault, but it doesn't stop me from feeling guilty anyway."

"When Kate died," Tony said quietly, locking eyes with Fornell, "for the longest time I kept replaying it in my mind, trying to figure out if there was something I should have seen, something I should have done, some way I could have saved her. Took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that there wasn't." He didn't add that he still felt guilty sometimes that he was alive instead of Kate. He figured Fornell knew what that was like all too well.

Both men were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Tony broke the silence first. "Thank you for telling me about them, Fornell. Maybe next year, if you don't mind the company, we can both drink to absent friends."

Fornell cocked his head to one side, studying Tony, before nodding slowly. "Maybe, DiNotzo, maybe. In the meantime, though," he continued, looking to lighten the mood, "I believe you mentioned lunch?"

Tony smiled, recognising what Fornell was trying to do. "I'm going to grab a shower first, if you don't mind. If you want one, the guest bathroom's there," he said, pointing to one of the doors off the livingroom. "Should be clean towels in there, and a robe on the back of the door."

Once they were both cleaned up and dressed, Fornell wearing a shirt and sweater borrowed from Tony in place of his dress shirt and suit jacket, Tony called a cab and they headed back to Ellington's. Sam looked from behind the bar as the two of them entered. "Tony," he said, smiling and coming out to shake Tony's hand. "I take it the arm's feeling better?" he asked, fixing Tony with an assessing gaze.

"That it is, Sam," Tony replied, grinning. "Sam, this is Tobias Fornell of the FBI. I believe the two of you sort of met last night."

Fornell shook the other man's hand. "Is the young lady who was waiting on me last night around?" he asked. "I think I may owe her an apology for having to deal with me last night. I hope I wasn't too much trouble."

"Annie's not in today, but I'll let her know you were concerned," Sam replied easily. "We've seen worse, though, so no worries. Are you guys staying for lunch, or are you just here to pick up your keys?"

"Definitely lunch for me, Sam. Fornell?" Tony asked.

Fornell was surprised to find he was actually quite hungry. He hadn't had anything to eat the night before but Tony obviously liked this place so the food couldn't be too bad, he thought. "Lunch sounds good to me," he said.

"Good," Sam said, gesturing them towards the bar and grabbing a couple of menus. "Tony, you still owe me the rest of the story from yesterday – don't think I've forgotten."

Tony rolled his eyes, but over club sandwiches and fries he recounted the story of being trapped in the shipping box with Ziva and his subsequent discovery of the dinner party that he hadn't been invited to. Fornell was studiously quiet throughout the story, but Tony thought he could see sympathy and perhaps a bit of anger in the other man's eyes when they met his.

After they'd finished lunch and chatted with Sam for a while about happier and more general topics Tony showed Fornell the coffee shop he'd mentioned earlier. As they prepared to part ways, Tony to head off to the Museum of American History to see his movie memorabilia exhibit and Fornell to finally head home, Fornell put his hand on Tony's arm.

"Look, DiNotzo, if you ever need to blow off some steam about work or anything, you give me a call, okay?" he said seriously. "Not that this changes anything at work, you understand," he continued gruffly. "I'm still gonna bust your chops when we cross paths."

Tony grinned. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Tobias," he said. "Seriously, though, same goes for you, okay?"

Fornell nodded. "Enjoy your exhibit," he said, striding off towards his car. Tony watched him for a moment and then started towards the museum, whistling _As Time Goes By_ as he walked. He didn't notice Fornell behind him cocking his head and smiling at the melody.

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Tony walked into the bullpen bright and early on Monday morning, a spring in his step. Although he was still hurt at being excluded from the dinner party the week before, his conversations with Sam and Fornell had helped a great deal, as had getting together with some of his DC-based frat brothers for beer, burgers and the a football game at their favourite sports bar on Sunday. All in all the weekend had reminded him that he had friends outside of NCIS who cared about him and had his back.

As his teammates arrived, they greeted Tony and asked about his weekend. He answered them cordially, and if any of them noticed that he didn't really elaborate on what he'd done or initiate conversation they didn't say anything about it.

Just after lunch Karen, one of NCIS' executive assistants, came up to Tony's desk carrying a vase containing a dozen yellow roses. "Hi Tony," she said, placing them on his desk. "Jack down at Security asked me if I'd bring these up to you as I was coming back in from lunch. Said to tell you that the flowers and the card's been scanned." After the incident that had led to Tony contracting the pneumonic plague it was standard operating procedure that any deliveries were scanned before being passed on to the recipient.

Tony frowned and looked at the flowers. He wasn't seeing anyone at the moment, and wasn't sure who would be sending him flowers. He plucked the card from the flowers and opened it.

_To Tony – my "Rick",_

_Thanks for Friday night and Saturday. It was just what I needed. Remember my offer – it's good any time._

"_Renault_"

Tony grinned at the sentiment. Every once in a while throughout the rest of the day he'd look at the card and smile. He refused to answer any questions about the card, the flowers or the sender, which frustrated McGee, Ziva and Abby to no end – probably just what Fornell had in mind when he sent them in the first place.

The beginning of a beautiful friendship indeed.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, I know Rick actually said the line in Casablanca, but it made more sense in the story for Tony to be Rick, so I took a little bit of poetic license. I've been thinking of doing some more Tony/Tobias pieces, mostly episode tags (I've got one floating around my brain right now for Jack Knife, in fact). Anyone interested in reading more of these?


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